Nobody Hurts My Flower
by letscountstars
Summary: In which Jehan is hospitalized, and Bahorel gets into a fight (but really, what's new?).


_Jehan's in the hospital. Get over here ASAP._

As soon as they read Combeferre's text, Bahorel and Grantaire abandoned their half-finished drinks and sprinted to the former's car. They made it to the hospital's waiting room in under five minutes.

"What happened?" Bahorel demanded of Enjolras, who at this point, was the only one awake. The others were curled up on the floor in a tangle of limbs.

"He was walking home and was attacked by those imbeciles who disrupted our latest protest," their leader answered, the anger in his voice palpable.

"Those cowards?"

"The very same." They could all vividly remember Francois and his gang, who'd showed up at last week's protest for the sole purpose of mocking their cause (equal rights for all). Much like all their rallies thus far, it hadn't gone well, but it was the only one that had ended in injuries more serious than a few scrapes and bruises—namely Feuilly's broken nose and Courfeyrac's dislocated shoulder.

"How is he?" Grantaire butted in.

"He has a broken leg—they're operating on it now—and the doctors aren't sure yet but he may also have a concussion."

"Fucking bastards. Who found him, by the way?" Grantaire was usually too drunk to care about anything, but he loved his friends. They were the ones that kept him sane when he felt like going crazy.

"Joly, Bossuet, and 'Chetta. They were on their way home from the Musain and luckily they passed by the alley Francois and company left him in," Enjolras was about to say more when he noticed that one of their number—who wasn't being operated on as they spoke—had gone missing.

"R?"

"Yeah, Enjy?"

"Wasn't Bahorel standing beside you just a minute ago? And don't call me Enjy ever again."

"Whatever, Enjy. Hey, where'd Bahorel go?"

"I was just asking you the same thing."

"Oh, shit." The half-drunk man slapped himself on the forehead as the sudden realization hit him. "He may have gone after Francois."

He checked his phone and, sure enough, there was a text from his friend: _If I'm not back in 20 minutes, call the police. I'm in the apartment building right next to the Musain._

The previous week's protest hadn't been Bahorel's encounter with Francois and his gang. In fact, way back in high school, they had been friends.

In their third year, Francois—an orphan who deeply resented society for his problems—begun a reign of infamy: vandalizing the school and the surrounding streets and picking fights with other students for no apparent reason, leading Bahorel (who believed in using his strength to make society a better place) to sever all connections they had. The former was expelled, much to the chagrin of his foster parents, who'd worked day and night to give him a good education, while the latter graduated with flying colours and later joined the Les Amis de l'ABC. When Francois was old enough, he ran away and joined a gang, eventually becoming its leader.

Since their days as high school students, the two had crossed paths more than once, when Bahorel was walking to and from meetings in the Cafe Musain.

And this cafe was where he was heading. If his memory served him right, Francois and his group of misfits hid out in the adjacent building. Hopefully, they hadn't packed up and moved because Bahorel's greatest desire that night was to beat the living daylights out of his former friend as payback for hurting his present boyfriend.

Bahorel had been attracted to Jehan Prouvaire ever since the poet swept into the cafe in a flurry of flowers. There was just something so special about him that couldn't be explained. By the Amis second meeting, they had become friends, and it was Jehan's sweet personality that made the usually tough man's walls come crashing down.

He'd never had a problem with expressing his feelings, but Bahorel had never been in love before. He knew that Jehan loved poetry—as evidenced by the entire sonnet written in yellow marker on his wrist—so he'd consulted Combeferre, who always had an armful of books handy. When he hadn't found the right poem to convey his feelings, he'd gone online and finally found the perfect one: _How Do I Love Thee? _by Elizabeth Browning, an Englishwoman.

He'd visited Jehan in his apartment and given the sonnet, accompanied by the following words: "Jean Prouvaire, I love you. I've loved you ever since I saw you at the cafe during that first meeting. I know you're very fond of poetry, and I'm absolutely shit at this kind of stuff, and I found this online, so here. I mean, you don't have to love me, too, I just had to get this off my chest, and—"

His impromptu speech was cut off by when he felt Jehan's lips on his. _They're so soft_, was his last thought before he lost himself in the moment. He felt Jehan smile into the kiss when Bahorel returned it fiercely. It was the best feeling in the world, one he never wanted to end.

They only pulled apart when Courfeyrac—their friend who also happened to be Jehan's roommate—walked in, dropped his mug of coffee on the floor, and proceeded to splutter incoherently.

Even though it had happened weeks ago, the kiss still lingered on Bahorel's lips as he crept through the streets. He was fairly sure that—unless Francois knew something he didn't—choosing Jehan as a victim was an unfortunate coincidence and not to spite him. Only the rest of the Amis, as well as Marius, Cosette, Eponine, Gavroche, and Musichetta, knew about him and Jehan. The pair, on their part, had made sure to be as inconspicuous as possible outside of the Musain and each other's apartments.

_There it is. _He'd found the abandoned building and slowly made his way to the front door, keeping to the shadows and making sure that the pocket knife he always carried in case of emergency was in its proper place.

He was planning to lure Francois out into the street when he heard a voice behind him, the voice belonging to the very person he was looking for.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't my old friend Bahorel. I must say, I was surprised to see that it was you Antoine saw sneaking around." Francois stepped into view, and the look on his face was so smug that it took all of Bahorel's willpower to stop himself from punching his former classmate right in the nose. He was alone, but being a natural fighter, the latter wasn't taking any chances.

He decided to let out his anger through words instead. "What did you do to him?" he asked, although he knew Enjolras had given a perfectly satisfactory answer a while ago.

"Who?"

"Jehan. Reddish-blonde hair that's always in a braid, pretty small guy, remember?"

"Oh, him. We beat his pretty face up fairly well last night. Didn't we, Antoine?" Now Bahorel was sure that Francois had reinforcements hiding in the darkness. "Why, Bahorel, do you know him?"

"He's my friend," he managed to answer through tightly clenched teeth.

"And you've come to avenge him, isn't that right?" Before an answer could be given, Francois continued with his monologue. "Bahorel, old friend, you are too predictable. I honestly didn't know he was your friend, as you say, but now that I know, it doesn't surprise me in the least that you're here. You were never one to run away from a fight."

Bahorel couldn't hold back any longer; he swung and hit Francois squarely in the jaw. The crunch of bone brought a satisfied smile to his face. "_Nobody_ hurts my friends, especially not Jehan." He turned around, ready to face Antoine and whoever else was still hiding, but was met with a fist to the side of his head.

The world went black, and the unstoppable fighter was finally defeated.

"How is he?" A voice, Feuilly's, asked.

"He was hurt pretty badly, but he'll live," someone, most likely a nurse, reassured.

Bahorel's eyelids felt heavy, but he forced them open anyway. "Where am I?" His tongue felt like lead.

"Welcome back to the world of the living!" Courfeyrac greeted. His eyesight adjusted itself and he saw everyone except Jehan gathered around his bed.

"How long was I out?"

"Three days or so. That punch in the head you got was pretty hard," Joly answered.

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock," said a new voice. Bahorel turned his head as far as it would go and saw Jehan sitting in a chair near the window, his broken leg in a Sharpie-covered cast and his long hair in its trademark braid. His smile—shining like a beacon through the dark bruises on his face—was the only thing Bahorel needed to see to feel better.

"Jehan! You're okay!"

"Yeah. It turns out that I didn't have a concussion, so the doctors let me go the day after you were admitted here. I've been sitting here worried sick for the past 24 hours wondering whether you'd wake up or not."

"All these injuries were worth it, you know, since I got them all for you."

"I'm gonna be sick." Bossuet mimed vomiting and quickly exited the room.

"Me too," everyone else agreed and piled through the door like stampeding elephants.

"You didn't have to go after Francois, you know," Jehan said once they were alone, moving his chair closer to the bed and taking his boyfriend's hand.

"I couldn't just let them get away with beating you—or anyone else, for that matter—up. I told R to call the police so hopefully those thugs have been taken care of for good. I couldn't handle seeing you hurt, and I promise I will never let anyone hurt you ever again. I love you so much. You know that, don't you?"

"I know. And I love you, too."

Bahorel sat up despite the splitting headache any movement gave him, and leaned towards Jehan. Their lips met and any physical pain either of them were feeling disappeared. And the best part? That the Amis were standing guard outside the door, ready to distract anyone who could enter and interrupt their perfect moment.


End file.
